


For Ye Who Would Keep Thy Word

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Never Far from the Queen [9]
Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 19:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14503638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: His lives and his deaths belong to his Queen, and he accepts that; he always has. He has offered himself into her service, and unlike many, he has been aware what that meant from the very beginning. But sometimes, he is allowed to choose.(Thaos meets one of his many deaths.)





	For Ye Who Would Keep Thy Word

Thaos glances at his reflection in the silver chalice. It is distorted and blurred, but enough to see his hair is grey now. Besides, he does not need sight to know – he feels it in his bones and joints, the weariness of the soul finally mirrored in his body. It is time. Or soon will be.

There is no unrest, nothing he must see to immediately, nothing to do for him now but to wait for when he will be needed. Therefore, he does not have to push himself past that one limit, at least, to extend his life beyond what human body can bear. He can end this swiftly, before he stops being useful to Woedica in this life, before his faithful acolytes start seeing him as just another mortal rather than their anointed leader. While it is still his decision to make.

His lives and his deaths belong to his Queen, and he accepts that; he always has. He has offered himself into her service, and unlike many, he has been aware what that meant from the very beginning. But sometimes, he is allowed to choose.

It is not a pleasant process, nor is it painless; a soul is not used to existing without a body, not after so many years spent being housed in one. Even for him, who knows the mechanics of that, it is a harrowing experience. It is impossible to explain to the soul that it will not be lost, that it will not be shattered, that the biting cold will pass; that it will return to the Wheel intact – better still, that it will never truly leave. Even he cannot do it without preparation.

That is, however, how it ends most often – he guides his soul out of his body and lets the spirit depart, lets the flesh fade. To his acolytes, it seems as if he fell into eternal sleep, as if he had power over life and death – his own, at least. Just another line in a meticulously crafted legend. If not for that, for the necessity to cultivate this tale, he would prefer poison, or a knife between the ribs. Faster. Less painful. No time for anything but a brief flash of surprise that it is already done.

When the soul is withering away, caught between life and death, it is left alone, floating, trapped in a state where it can do nothing but remember. And while perfect memory is a useful tool, it is also an intricate torture device. Sometimes he wonders if Woedica enjoys that, too. She always takes the most satisfaction in the unseen, quiet signs of power.

But sometimes... Sometimes his Queen can be merciful. When she is exceptionally pleased with his service, when he has done something not only according to the plans, but also even better than she expected of him. It happens only rarely... But each life, he struggles to be worthy of that.

Not in this life, it seems. Thaos puts the empty chalice onto the table and sits down on the bed with a deep, heavy sigh – as if he could let out all of his reluctance to do what he must. So simple, he muses, and yet so difficult. But the soul and the body do not always want to listen to the voice of reason.

There is a quiet rustle of silk and velvet, and a warm breath over his cheek as slender hands touch his shoulders, and relief washes over him. In this life, then. He is almost grateful, even when longing, sharp as a dagger, pierces his soul, heart, his whole being. But tonight, Woedica is not here to... bless him.

Her mercy is just as terrifying as her wrath, and Thaos thinks he loves her for that, too.

“It is time, then?” she ask softly, her lips brushing his ear.

“I think it is, my Queen,” he answers, closing his eyes. She is here, her arms around him, and this is his reward.

Her fingers stroke his neck, and the first touch of the silvery thread seems almost like a caress.

She pulls him closer, until he is leaning against her lightly. “Whenever you are ready,” she whispers, lips moving against his temple as she speaks.

Thaos thinks – ah, blasphemy; not the first in his many lives, not the first he will be forgiven – that he has been ready ever since his Awakening. But he cannot voice it – cannot, and has no right to do so. He chose this path, knowing what had to be done, what would have to be done, and there is no turning back. As always, he will bear it. He will bear anything Woedica demands of him.

He takes a breath, and then, letting the air out, he nods.

There is no place for memories in the struggle between life and death, not when everything is brought down to such a small part of instinct and physicality. No place for anything.

When he touches the Queen’s hands, it is not to free himself.

And then, for a moment, there is nothing but soft darkness and _oblivion_ , and that is Woedica’s mercy – allowing him, for one blessed instant, to _forget_.


End file.
